The Poetry of
Jack Scott

The Road Out of Here

The road out of here,
pitted with mirages,
writhes and shimmers snakelike
toward horizon it will never reach.

Tantalizing to the eye
the horizon’s not accessible by foot,
but the mailman makes it through,
proof only that it’s possible for some.

I am an empty mailbox
on an empty house
beneath the scorching sun.
I am only “Occupant”,
but welcome all incoming mail
if only to discover
sent to someone
who happens to be me.

The shortest distance
from Nowhere here
to Nowhere there
is not at all a straight line.
No matter which way I turn
I face always away
in the hope of cooler hell.

One tends to disremember
that spring will melt
and fall will turn to frost
then that to winter’s ice
with no memory
of summer’s steam iron
pressed on sweaty clothes.
We survive each season,
to confront the next.
Amnesia is a sometimes blessing.

Love is gone,
driven out by searing heat
partially of its own making,
baked out like alcohol
from cherished recipes,
evaporates, is gone.
leaving scant nourishment,
perhaps a crust,
but no solace to spread on it.
It’s a bitch to be in love
at over ninety nine degrees
with no memory of coolness.

Although it may seem
this topic is the weather
don’t slip and drown
the ice on top is not the pond.

Love dies cruelly
of one limit of endurance
or the other.

L30 ®Copyright 1966 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.